k for Boston, and had
only come in fulfilment of a promise. Then he accosts his father.

"I know we have both a great deal to say to Doctor Warren, father, but
it is a pleasure only to be deferred. We must say good-night, so that he
can sleep, and will meet in New York next week."

Doctor Warren looks up inquiringly. He is far from willing to let them
go, but the physician interposes. They say their adieux and still Abbot
hesitates; his eyes wander to the door which communicates with Bessie's
room, and, as though in answer, it opens and she softly enters.

"I am so glad you have come," he says, in low, eager tone. "Let me
present my father," and the old gentleman bows with courtly grace and
comes forward to take her hand. She is a lovely picture to look at, with
the sweet, shy consciousness in her face. The very gaze in Abbot's eyes
has sent the color to her brows, and he holds her hand until he has to
transfer it to his father's out-stretched palm.

"The doctor tells us we must not stay, Miss Bessie," he continues, "but
I could not go without a word. I am ordered to Boston by first train in
the morning, but shall see you--may I not--in New York?"

Brave as she is, it comes too suddenly--this news that she must part
with her knight just as he has done her such loyal service, and before
she has even thanked him by look or word. All the radiance, all the
bright color fades in an instant, and Paul Abbot cannot but see it and
divine, in part at least, the reason. He has in his pocket letters from
her own fair hand, that he knows were written for him, and yet that he
has no right to see. He reads in her lovely eyes a trust in him, a pain
at this sudden parting, that he thrills in realizing, yet should steel
his heart against or be no loyal man. But he cannot go without a word
from her, and it is a moment before she can speak:

"Is--is it not very sudden? I shall never thank you enough for what you
have done for father--for _us,_ this evening. What would we have done
without you?"

"That is nothing. There is no time now--but next week--New York--I may
see you there, may I not?"

May he not? What man can look in her eyes and ask less? He holds her
hand in close pressure one instant and hastens from the room.

* * * * *

Forty-eight hours later he is in the presence of the woman who had
promised to be his wife. The evening has seemed somewhat long. She was
out when he called at an earli